by Mark Dawson
Geggel looked down at the page and then back up to Aleksandrov. “Where did you get this, Pyotr?”
“Do you remember my daughter?”
Geggel found the information was surprisingly easy to recall. “Oh,” he said. “I see. She worked for Sukhoi.”
The recollection triggered a little spill of excitement. The possibility of using the father to turn the daughter had been tantalising back then, but, as Geggel recalled, Aleksandrov had shut down the possibility as soon as he sensed SIS’s motives. Anastasiya was a patriot, a dedicated servant of the motherland, and she had seen her father’s defection as the most heinous of betrayals. She had disavowed Aleksandrov in disgust. Geggel and Aleksandrov had had many late-night conversations about it; Aleksandrov had been crushed by her reaction.
“She was assigned to the research division in Komsomolsk,” he said. “They are developing the Su-58 there. There is a treasure trove of intelligence waiting to be taken. Anastasiya had access to everything.”
“I also remember that the two of you were not exactly on speaking terms.”
“We were not.”
Geggel noted the use of the past tense and tapped his finger on the schematic. “But she sent you this.”
“Things change. My defection was bad for her career, as you would expect. But her reaction to it—her hatred of me—persuaded the GRU that she is trustworthy. They always knew that she was smart and hard-working, and, once they were satisfied that she was patriotic, that she hated me, she was given responsibility again.”
Geggel sat a little straighter. He might have been retired, but his instincts were still sharp and he knew, immediately, that this conversation had the potential to be one of the most important of his life. “That’s not enough,” he said. “Something else must have changed.”
Aleksandrov nodded. “She was married five years ago. His name was Vitali Romanov and he was a nice man, from what I understand. An oil and gas trader—very successful, rich. I do not know the details, but he was convicted of financial improprieties and sent to Sevvostlag. Anastasiya says he was innocent, but that the state would not listen to her. He died in the gulag. They said it was a heart attack, but Anastasiya said he was well before he was sentenced. She says that they murdered him for his money.” He sipped his beer. “Oligarchs with connections to the Kremlin. It happens often. Anastasiya sees this as the second betrayal of her life, but this one is worse than the first. What happened to him has given her the opportunity to consider what I did in a different light. She sees that perhaps the Rodina is not the utopia that she once thought.”
Geggel glanced around the room. The pub was busy, but he couldn’t see anyone who looked as if he or she might be paying them any special attention. The hubbub around them was welcome; if he was wrong, and someone was watching them, it would be too noisy for them to eavesdrop.
“What does she want?”
“To defect,” Aleksandrov said. “She wants to come here with me.”
“And she knows she’ll have to give us something to make that happen?”
Aleksandrov nodded, his expression a little bitter. “She knows that she cannot rely on your kindness, yes. I have taught her that much. She knows that she will have to buy her passage, but that is fine—she has something valuable to sell.” Now it was Aleksandrov’s turn to lean forward. He rested his elbows on the table and spoke quietly. “This schematic is just the start. She can provide you with everything: blueprints, timelines, Gantt charts, evaluation criteria, production schedules, subcontractors, tender information. Data on airborne radar and weapons control systems. Everything.”
“I’m listening, Pyotr.”
Aleksandrov grinned. “Your aerospace industry will see it as a goldmine. It is unprecedented. The value in this intelligence… it is incalculable.”
Geggel tapped a finger on the piece of paper. “Do you have the rest?”
Aleksandrov shook his head. “Pass that to your old friends on the river and ask them to investigate. My daughter wants you to respect her—this is how she proves that she is worthy of that respect. SIS should confirm that this information is good. When they have done that, we can discuss how she can be exfiltrated.”
“Where is she now? Is she safe?”
“She is in hiding. The FSB questioned her after Vitali’s death. She told them how she felt—she is hot-blooded.”
“Like her father,” Geggel suggested.
Aleksandrov smiled. “She knew that she went too far, and disappeared before they could come back to bring her in. They are looking for her now. She is frightened. Exfiltration will not be a simple thing. She knows that—but she also knows that what she will bring with her is worth the effort.”
“So how do we contact her?”
“It must be through me. She will not speak to anyone else.” Aleksandrov reached across the table and grasped Geggel’s hand in both of his. “Will you help?”
Geggel knew that he had no choice: the information that Aleksandrov was offering was so valuable that it would be tantamount to treason to pass up the opportunity of acquiring it, but even more than that it was a chance for him to remind his old superiors that they had erred by treating him the way they had. He could bring the opportunity to them as a demonstration that the old ways were still better than the new, that an old hand like him was still worth something even when held up against the up-and-comers like Jessie Ross and the other youngsters who had replaced him.
Aleksandrov squeezed his hand. “Leonard?”
“Yes,” Geggel said. He disengaged himself from Aleksandrov’s grip and glanced down at the piece of paper that lay on the table between them; it had been stained by a splash of spilled ale. “I’ll need this.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll show it to them. They’ll have questions.”
“I am sure they will. But they must work through you, Leonard. I trust you. I do not trust anyone else.”
Geggel stood. He took the paper from the table, folded it neatly, and slipped it into his pocket. Aleksandrov stood, too, and Geggel took his hand and shook it.
“I’ll contact you as soon as I have word from London. Don’t contact her again unless you have to.”
Aleksandrov kept hold of his hand, clasping it in both of his. “Thank you. This is a very good thing that you do. My daughter will be grateful. As am I.”
Geggel smiled, and Aleksandrov released his hand.
“Be careful, Pyotr.”
“And you.”
7
Nataliya had taken up a position on the promenade. She could look north toward the pub where Aleksandrov and Geggel had met, or, by turning to the west, she could see the street where Geggel had parked his car. There was nothing out of place, and nothing that gave Nataliya any cause for concern.
She heard Mikhail’s voice in her ear. “They’re both coming out.”
She gazed up the street. Aleksandrov came out first, pausing beneath the pub’s sign until Geggel joined him. The handler extended a hand and Aleksandrov took it, drawing Geggel into a hug. They exchanged words—Nataliya was much too far away to be able to hear what was said—and then they parted. Aleksandrov turned right and Geggel turned left.
“They’ve split up,” Nataliya said, turning her head away from an approaching couple. “Aleksandrov has gone north. Geggel is heading to me.”
She saw Mikhail exit the pub. “Take Geggel,” he said. “I’ll take Aleksandrov.”
Nataliya pushed herself away from the railings and turned toward the car park. She followed the promenade as it traced its way along the top of the cliff. She glanced down at the row of beach huts, the lower promenade, the stony beach and then the sea, the high tide breaking over a set of wooden groynes. She walked quickly, but not so fast as to draw attention to herself, and, as she walked, she opened her handbag and reached her fingers inside until she could feel her lock pick.
She arrived at the common, an area of grass that had been yellowed by the hot summer’s sun. She cr
ossed it and saw the line of painted parking spaces on Park Lane. She had been sent a picture of Geggel’s Citroën, and confirmed that the registration was the same. It was the large seven-seat Grand C4 SpaceTourer, with plenty of space in the back. She reached the vehicle, took out her pick and, after checking around her, knelt down by the lock. The pick had already been coded, and she slid it into the keyhole, unlocked the door, and slipped inside. The seats were arranged in a two-three-two pattern. She closed the door and dropped down into the footwell between the rear and middle rows.
She waited for Geggel to arrive.
Geggel hardly noticed his surroundings as he made his way back to his car. He had a spring in his step. Aleksandrov’s reason for the meeting had been unexpected, and Geggel found that he was more excited than he had been for years. He reached up and slid his fingers into the inside pocket of his jacket; he felt the sharp edge of the folded square of paper and thought of the schematic that was printed on it. He took the piece of paper out and unfolded it on the bonnet of the Citroën. He took out his phone and snapped it, taking two pictures to be sure, and then emailed both to himself. Better safe than sorry.
He knew what he would have to do: contact Raj Shah, get the intelligence checked out, and then work out how he could involve himself in the operation to exfiltrate Anastasiya Romanova. He was confident that he could do it. Aleksandrov had made it plain that he would only deal with him; he would make that very clear when he made contact. He knew that his replacement, Jessie Ross, would protest, and he had some sympathy for her, not that that would make any difference. This was his achievement. He would bring it in, and he would take the plaudits. It was remarkable. He was on the cusp of landing the biggest intelligence coup for years. It didn’t matter that he was retired; this would be the crowning moment of his career.
He opened the door and lowered himself onto the seat. He started the car, reversed out of the bay and set off, following Godyll Road as it sliced between the green space of the town common. He picked up the A1095 and followed it toward the main trunk road that would lead back to London.
He took out his phone, plugged it into the USB port and then took out his wallet. He removed the credit cards and tossed them onto the seat next to him until he found what he was looking for: a plastic card, like the credit cards he had just filleted, with a government logo on the back and a phone number beneath it. He typed the number into the phone three digits at a time, switching his attention between the screen and the road ahead. He finished, but didn’t dial the number. His finger hovered over the screen; he didn’t even know whether it was still current. He pressed dial.
“Vauxhall Cross,” the woman at the other end said over the speaker. “How can I help you?”
Geggel felt something hard pressed up flush against the side of his head. He looked up into the mirror and saw a woman behind him; the hard point he could feel against his temple was the muzzle of a handgun.
“End the call,” she said in a quiet, firm voice.
Geggel gripped the wheel a little tighter.
“Hello? This is Vauxhall Cross. How can I help you?”
The woman pushed the gun, hard enough that he had to put his head against his shoulder. “Now,” she said.
Geggel reached forward and pressed the screen, killing the call.
“Thank you,” she said.
Geggel looked back in the mirror. The woman was dark haired. She wore glasses, had earrings in both ears, and wore a Led Zeppelin t-shirt.
“Who are you?”
“Keep driving,” she said. “I want to ask you some questions.”
8
Aleksandrov made his way home, stopping in a delicatessen on the High Street to buy olives and cheese and then continuing on his way. Mikhail followed, leaving a sizeable distance between them. He knew where Aleksandrov was going; he didn’t need to see him every step of the way, and so he drifted into and out of shops, looking for all the world like an idling tourist enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon. Aleksandrov turned onto Wymering Road and Mikhail turned, too; by the time Mikhail reached Aleksandrov’s house he was already inside. Mikhail saw movement through the sitting room window.
There was no reason to wait. Mikhail’s orders were clear. He checked that the road was empty and crossed the short path to the front door. It was set back in an arch that would hide him from the other houses on the street; he would only have been visible to those directly behind him, and the only thing there was the garden of a bungalow that was being refurbished. The builders were not there today; no one could see him.
He reached into his jacket and pulled the Beretta from its holster, hiding it against his hip as he knocked on the door with the knuckles of his left hand. He heard the sound of footsteps and then the sound of a key being turned. Mikhail took a step back, still within the shelter of the arch. The door opened enough for Aleksandrov to look outside.
“Hello?” he said.
Mikhail kicked the door, hard, and then followed immediately with his shoulder. Aleksandrov was caught off balance; the edge of the door slammed into his face and he stumbled back into the hall. Mikhail followed in quickly, the gun pointed ahead. Aleksandrov had tripped and fallen, and was on his backside, scrabbling to get away. Mikhail closed the door with his foot and then closed on Aleksandrov, the gun pointing down at him.
“Get up,” he said.
Aleksandrov held a hand up before his face.
“Up,” Mikhail said, reaching down with his left hand and hauling Aleksandrov up so that he was on his knees. He pressed the muzzle against his forehead, smearing the blood from the cut the door had made. “Up—now.”
Aleksandrov reached a hand out for a console table and used it to help him to get to his feet. He was unsteady. Mikhail knew the layout of the house and knew that the kitchen could not be seen from outside the house. He turned Aleksandrov around, put the gun against the back of his head, and impelled him to the back of the house. The kitchen was neat and tidy: white goods down one side, a breakfast bar with stools, and a small two-person settee. There was a kettle on the hob, just starting to whistle, and Russian folk music played from a speaker on the work surface.
“Turn around,” Mikhail said.
Aleksandrov did. He stared at the gun.
“Don’t,” Mikhail said, shaking his head.
“Who are you?”
Mikhail pushed the muzzle of the gun against Aleksandrov’s forehead again and, eyeing him, switched to Russian. “Do you have to ask?”
Aleksandrov didn’t respond; instead, Mikhail saw his larynx bob up and down as he tried to swallow down his fear.
“We need to have a talk, Pyotr,” he said. “Do you mind if I call you Pyotr?”
Aleksandrov shook his head and reached up to wipe the blood that was running into his eyes.
“Sit down.”
Mikhail took the pistol away and flicked the barrel in the direction of the settee. Aleksandrov backed away, his eyes on the muzzle, and sat. The kettle started to whistle loudly, and Mikhail, still training the gun on Aleksandrov, reached over, took it from the hob and put it on a metal trivet.
Aleksandrov gawped at him, as if confounded by the contradiction of the gun and this gesture of domesticity. “Why are you here?” he asked, taking a seat on the settee.
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t understand. I have been retired for ten years. I served my time—I paid for my crimes. I’m still paying for them.”
“Really? How is that?”
“Because I cannot return home. They would kill me if I tried, so I have to stay here.”
“I’m not here because of what you did before. There would have been no reason for me to come if you had stayed retired, as you should have. But you haven’t stayed retired, have you, Pyotr? You want to get back into the game. Now—try again. Tell me—why do you think I am here?”
Aleksandrov swallowed again. “Because of my daughter.”
“That’s right. Your daughter—Anastasiy
a. It would appear that the apple has not fallen far from the tree.”
“What do you mean—”
“Like father, like daughter. Treachery. Treason. Do you need me to explain?”
Aleksandrov stared at the gun; a single bead of sweat formed on his brow and Mikhail watched as it rolled down into the thick white hair of his eyebrow. “I can’t help you.”
“Can’t, Pyotr, or won’t?”
“You want to know where she is. Yes? But I don’t know. She hasn’t told me.”
Mikhail had seen the emails between father and daughter, and Anastasiya had not revealed her location.
“Where do you think she might be, Pyotr?”
“Please—I’m not fooling with you. I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
He swallowed again. “Komsomolsk, perhaps. But she could be in Khurba, Amursk, Malmyzh. She could have gone as far south as Vladivostok. She could be in Moscow for all I know. She didn’t tell me, I swear.”
“Let me ask you another question, then. What did you say to Leonard Geggel this afternoon?” Aleksandrov’s mouth gaped open. “I was there, Pyotr. I was in the pub with you—I saw it all. What did you say to him?”
“Anastasiya wants to leave Russia. She wants to offer information to MI6 so they can get her out and make her safe. I told Geggel—what she had, what she wanted for it.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he would contact MI6 for me. He would try and arrange it.”
“The information—what does she have?”
“The new Sukhoi fighter. She has been working on it.” He looked almost apologetic. “She has everything.”
“What did Geggel say? Did he think they would be interested?”
Aleksandrov closed his eyes, swallowed again, and nodded. “Yes,” he said.
Mikhail leaned forward. “Where is she, Pyotr? Tell me how to find her. She is not at her home. Where would she go? Does she have a friend she would trust?”
“I don’t know,” he said again, desperation straining his voice. “I haven’t spoken to her for years. I know nothing about her life—nothing.”
